


Planting The Seed

by Churbooseanon



Series: Partings and Reunions [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, First Meetings, Gardens & Gardening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:11:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4908376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churbooseanon/pseuds/Churbooseanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeds are promise. Seeds are hope. Seeds are potential. Whether they be for plants or in the form of meetings, they are the first step to something beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Planting The Seed

People loved the rose garden. Who could really blame them, with the way the bushes lined the radial paths, with the soft color of the worn bricks that composed the paths themselves, and then there was the courtyard the rose garden led to which presented an open view of the lake down in the valley. People found it peaceful, that view framed by old sugar maples. So many events were held here, so many photo shoots, so many moments in so many lives enhanced by the ambiance lent by the faintly perfumed air and the low, rumbling buzz of bees, and the quiet sanctity of the space.

Vanessa found herself loathing every last one. Not because these moments aren’t important and right and wonderful. People deserve venues like this. Perfect scenes to act as stage dressings to their carefully planned and choreographed weddings. Teens immortalizing the joy of proms and formals deserved the dreamy looks of arms around each other like young love was all there was and all there ever would be. Tours and educational trips and couples strolling away lazy afternoons all over again, moving over paths they knew well. 

What made her upset was the fact that it all seemed to come at the cost of the roses. 

It didn’t quite matter how carefully the grounds crew moved the chairs and the arch and rolled out lanes for delicate bride’s shoes. Didn’t matter how the chains were strung between poles or how many signs were hung, people didn’t seem to care, or maybe notice. How many times had she walked the paths to see the damage? Broken stems and bruised leaves and buds or whole blooms stolen. The beauty was already a transient thing, but did people actually have to do this? 

With a sigh Vanessa knelt by her favorite, a lovely, pale orange tea hybrid with a pale pink core. It was a finicky grower, so delicate. Most of the winter she had fret and worried over it, its normal range being far South and not suited to a northern winter. She had put so much time and effort into the beautiful thing. Now she knelt by it, thick twine wound around her wrist and a stake in her fingers. What to do with it was the problem. How did one make this better? The stem, nearly snapped through and heavy with blossoms, drooped impossibly close to the ground, held up only by the chain that was supposed to keep people from getting too close. 

Someone, she had been told, had been playing ball while their parents had been focused elsewhere. How the ball had moved with such force as to harm the young bush she did not know. The roses should recover, though, if she got this right. And she had to get it right. The young rose needed all these leaves since it had only the two stems. But that didn’t make her less nervous. 

Vanessa steeled herself, a slow, deep breath filling her with a calm that stilled her hands, and she opened her eyes upon the damaged rose. At last she reached out, her fingers testing the soil around where she would work. Sure enough it was damp and soft, and she knew when she pulled them back she would be met with the ripe, rich scent of the good topsoil. Satisfied, she carefully angled the stake, let herself smile, and slowly pushed it down. Once it had a good depth she fished the spade from her side and gently tamped it down until the stake was deeply planted, standing strong and confident like her rose would soon do again. Once the arrangement was to her liking the spade was put aside in favor of the roll of green tape. The fingers of her thickly gloved left hand carefully grasped the damaged stem and held it in position for the first few winds of the tape. Soon the stem was more or less held in place, but it was hardly enough. The rose would need time to heal the wound, and until then external support was important. So quick fingers carefully tied stem to stake and then, just like that, everything looked right again. Smile light on her lips like a butterfly on a blood, she leaned in for just a brief sniff of the delicate scent, to revel in the lure the rose offered passing bugs in hopes of pollination. 

“If you smiled any more warmly at that rose, it might ask to buy you a drink.”

The voice, rich with restrained laughter, snapped Vanessa’s attention from her rose. Almost immediately she caught sight of the source, the only possible one considering the fact that a quick glance assured Vanessa that no one else was present but her and the woman. 

And what a woman, he mind supplied immediately in a tone too much like that of her friend Palomo. Dammit, Palomo. That said, the thought was right. As she stood and dusted the dirt from her hands, Vanessa had a good chance to look over the interloper. What her eyes went to first was crimson hair so vibrant that she had to doubt the veracity of the color. But did the woman ever own it. Next to the warm tan of her skin, the piercing green of her bright eyes, and the strange choice of an airy, aquamarine dress, she was gorgeous. Okay, so maybe the choice of the dress would be flat out stunning elsewhere, but in a rose garden, with so many thorns, it seemed less than advised. 

“Roses don’t talk,” Vanessa answered, bending to gather her materials. It gave her a chance to consider the various things the woman carried. The one slung over her shoulder--a pale, bare and oh so tempting shoulder--was clearly one of those compact chairs. The larger one in her hand Vanessa had seen before with other people and knew to contain a large sketch pad. And finally there was a pack on her back that probably contained whatever else she might need. 

“Art student?” Vanessa asked. “Be careful to anchor your pad. Supposed to get windy today and you don’t want it blowing into the roses.”

“I prefer ‘one who captures beauty’,” the woman answered as her gaze obviously roved over Kimball’s body. “But I’m no risk to the roses. I’m here for the view. A commissioned piece.”

Of course it was. Not that Vanessa cared. “Do what you will. Have a good day.”

“I will. If you’ll point me to Miss Kimball.”

Vanessa had to stare in shock. Why would someone be looking for her?

“I’m Kimball. Vanessa actually. Why is someone asking?” 

The woman strode forward, her free hand extended. There was little Vanessa could do but shake it. 

“My name is Charlotte Church. Your parents have hired me to do a piece on you. They told me you worked here between your classes at the university. When I checked with your bosses they said that as long as I’m not bothering you or interrupting your work, I could do my own here. Would that be alright?”

Vanessa kept staring at the woman. This? Here? Her parents had mentioned something about a special gift for themselves for her anniversary, but this was definitely unexpected. And why would the woman pick here? Had they asked for it? God, Kimball’s hair was a mess, falling out of its clips already, her knees were going to be caked with dirt soon if they weren’t already, and there was no doubt it would only get worse. 

“Why?” she couldn’t help but ask, and the woman chuckled in response. God what a beautiful sound that was, and somehow it seemed to fit in with the music of nature around them rather than clashing like some peoples’ did. 

“People are the most beautiful, and the most themselves, when they’re doing something they love. Don’t you agree?”

Vanessa nodded mostly because she didn’t have a real response in mind, and found herself stumbling through a conversation where she explained she’d be here all day, tending to the roses. The woman seemed more than content with that, and with Kimball’s help, set up not only a chair but an easel and her pad, claiming she wanted to start with some quick sketches to figure out how she wanted the picture to look.

It was only as Vanessa returned to her own work, ever mindful of the woman watching her with those stunning green eyes like freshly budded leaves, she couldn’t help the thought in the back of her mind. 

If people were more beautiful when they were doing the things they loved, then there was a good chance that she was going to be lost on the woman the second she caught sight of her at work. 

And maybe, that tiny voice in the back of her head that was so like Palomo’s said, that wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all.


End file.
